


Two Creams, Four Sugars

by heisenfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heisenfox/pseuds/heisenfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve is 19 and home for his first summer after college, he's woken up by a knock at the door and the news that Bucky's gone missing. Almost five years later, after a tour of the entire continental US spent searching for Bucky in crowds and in small towns, Steve finds him in a diner in the middle of nowhere, only...he's not Bucky. He introduces himself as John, and Steve finds himself drawn to him just the same. Everything is picture perfect.... Until the day John finds out what Steve's been hiding from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Creams, Four Sugars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialintent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialintent/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Две порции сливок и четыре ложки сахара](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497504) by [Loki (secretlytodream)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretlytodream/pseuds/Loki)



> Please heed the warning about drug use, there's a scene describing Bucky shooting up heroin and I don't want anyone to be surprised when they get to that. If descriptions about drugs/needles is something you can't do, feel free to skip this. There is also a scene where Steve is drinking to forget about Bucky, so if that's a trigger for anyone, please be forewarned of that as well.

* * *

Steve is nineteen when Bucky disappears. It's summertime; things are supposed to be innocent, full of long days, sunlight, sand falling from their hair, and laughter tumbling from their mouths. It’s supposed to be the first time he’s seeing Buck since their first year of college, their first year apart. They’d promised to visit, but never managed to, their holidays home never coincided. Steve is anticipating a knock at the door the second Bucky hears he’s home, even though he doesn’t get back to Brooklyn until almost three am.

They’re supposed to meet up that instant anyway, make up for all the lost time; he dumps his suitcase in his room and plops on the couch, waiting for Bucky’s inevitable arrival. Instead, he wakes up to a frantic knock on his front door at seven am; Mr. and Mrs. Barnes are there, asking if Bucky is with him. Steve says no. They ask when he last saw him; he says he just got in from school four hours ago, hasn't seen anyone; when he thinks about it, he realizes Bucky never responded to his text saying he was back. Steve is nineteen when he finally understands the true meaning of fear.

It's 72 hours before they can file an official missing persons report, and it's 72 days before Mr. and Mrs. Barnes concede to the fact that their son is most likely dead and buried somewhere they'll never find him. It's 72 weeks before Steve finally stops waiting up all hours of the night hoping Bucky will walk through his front door. But he never stops looking.

He leaves Brooklyn, can't stand the streets anymore, can't look at the alleyways without remembering their innocence as kids picking fights, can't go to the bar that doesn't card without remembering the warmth of Bucky against him when he's drunk. Hell, he can't even walk up his front steps anymore without feeling the weight of all the things that could've happened to Bucky pressing down on him like five tons of gravity. He scans for his face in the crowds at bars, in the shadows of skid rows, in every person he passes; none of them are ever Bucky.

So he leaves. The one good thing about dead parents is that he has nobody left to answer to; it was always Bucky, and Bucky is gone. He packs up his car, packs up his life, and drives. There's no destination, he just drives until the road blurs from lack of sleep; when he's too tired, he stops at a seedy motel, or sleeps in his car under a bridge with the doors locked up tight. He works odd jobs in towns he passes through, fixes the roof on several churches, mows some high school football fields, tunes up an ambulance here and there; anything he can do, he does. Money is money, and it keeps him on the move. If he stops for too long, he remembers why he's running.

He makes his way south, then west, then north, back south, a little ways north, and east again. He circles down, traveling through the states in a sort of spiral shape, making sure to hit every one of them. He didn't mind the south too much when he was there. Everyone was sweet in their own way, even if some of them were too stuck in the past. He knows what it's like to be like that, and hates to see it on other people. He leaves Georgia three months sooner than he wanted to, if only to escape the feeling that staying there would suck him right back into the past with its inhabitants.

California agrees with him in ways he never imagined. Especially the sun. He never really knew what a sunny day was like without humidity, but the crystal clear skies of the California coastline speak to him in a manner that almost seems to warm his soul the way a joyful, carefree Bucky used to. He feels his spirit stir in a way not felt since last he saw Bucky’s eyes crinkle with laughter at him, about to double over in amusement at something Steve’d said. The way the mountains peak so high they seem to be touching heaven’s door, the glittering light of the lakes and reservoirs, and the dull roar of the ocean make him feel small and larger than life all at once. He stays in California for two years longer than he planned, arguing to himself that he simply wants to take his time seeing the entire west coast. On his last night, he stands under the stars in the redwood groves of Northern California, wondering at the beauty around him. He doesn't pray - hasn't prayed since his parents died - but he thinks he understands faith now.

The great lakes aren't awful, and he enjoys the stillness that can be found in the early mornings. The people are a little chilly in some places, but that's just fine with Steve. Their money is as good as everyone else's, so he can't begrudge them anything. He flits from town to town, working as an electrician, as a lumber-yard worker, as a dock attendant, as a cook. Nothing has any permanence, and that’s the point. He’s able to leave a town before anyone truly knows him, before anyone starts to ask the serious questions he’s not quite ready to face. His tour of the midwest lasts two years before anything interesting happens. He’s been driving for four and three quarter years; he almost doesn’t remember what Bucky sounded like when he whined about needing to pee during a road-trip, almost shakes the haunting memory of Bucky’s legs stretched onto the dash, barely flinches at the prospect of the last remaining vestiges of Bucky’s scent leaving the passenger seat when he rolls down the window on a hot day.

The pace is the same, the pay is the same, the way of living is the same, until the day that he wanders into a small town and finds a mildly steady job rebuilding a football stadium's bleachers at a high school. It'll take him at least three months to finish it completely and be sure of his work, and that has him hesitating for a good while. He normally wouldn't sign on for work that lasts more than two weeks, but it's good money, more than he’s made in the past four months combined. He shakes his head, shakes away the feeling that he should just move onto the next dot on the map, and shakes hands with the contractors at the school, telling them his name and signing on the dotted line. It's been four years, two-hundred-seventy-five days, and eleven hours since Bucky vanished. The hole in his chest doesn't feel so big anymore, and Steve wonders if it has anything to do with the wide, open spaces of the midwest making him feel so small.

The construction work is tedious and routine, but that's the kind of work Steve loves. He spends his days in the sun playing the classic rock station on his stereo, singing along to songs he remembers Bucky hating, and grins; he lays down row after row of seats, checking and rechecking his work. In the first month, he gets nearly half the set done. Outside of work, he keeps to himself as well; just because he’s breaking his rule of staying longer than a couple of weeks doesn’t mean he has to break all of his rules.

He still can’t face the questions he knows small-town folk love to ask, can’t psych himself up for the pity he’ll see when they hear his story of lost love and friendship. So he finds a motel that allows him to pay cash for weeks in advance, and lays down enough for just under three months. He orders most of his food in, and avoids any of the central hangouts of the town. When he's bored, he rereads one of the fifteen books that he brought when he left home, ignoring the names scrawled together just inside the cover, the way his and Bucky’s names seemed to just belong side-by-side, the way they themselves did. Very rarely, he sketches; profiles, shots of someone's back, the way shoulders pull at a loose fitting henley. Never full faces, because they're always the same. They're always Buck.

Three quarters of the way through his work on the stadium, there's a storm, and half of his work is destroyed. He supposes he should be thankful, after seeing the rest of the town; practically all of the main shops are obliterated, with only the rows of homes, the school, and the city hall standing completely intact. The faculty assure him he'll be paid for his added time, plus a bonus to cover the work he’ll have to do to salvage whatever still stands, and he adds two months to his stay at the motel. The man who hired him offers to buy him a beer in sympathy, and Steve accepts, if only because he feels a special kind of dirty if he orders in his liquor. They head for the diner at the center of town and immediately make for a pair of bar stools in the corner. They're three beers in before Steve takes a proper look around the place.

The first thing he notices is that there’s already a brand new window pane on the main side; if nothing else, the people in the town he’s found himself in are resilient. There's a couple at a table to his left eating breakfast for dinner, a family of four with a smorgasbord, and a man sitting alone in the opposite corner Steve sits in. Steve is about to look away, turn his attention back to the exchange between his friend and the diner owner, when something catches, and he looks back to the man sitting alone. His back is to Steve, and his shoulders are hunched as he seems to search for some supreme wisdom in his coffee cup.

Something about the frame of the guy, the tightness of his shirt across his broad shoulders and the dusky brown of his hair pulls at Steve. He's on his feet before he realizes, and just before he reaches the table, the guy happens to glance around. Steve stops so suddenly that his knees buckle, and he nearly falls over from stumbling. It's been five years since he last saw him, but Steve knows that face anywhere. He’s searched for it in every state he’s visited without realizing, gone to national landmarks hoping to find it in a crowd, cowering and lost, dreamt of the way it looked above him on the best of nights.

The man from the corner -- _Bucky_ , his mind whispers -- is quick to catch him. His hands are large, warm, firm against Steve's chest and lower back; they bring up unbidden memories of the same hands ghosting over trembling flesh, of the feeling of another body upon him. His breath ghosts over Steve's face as he asks "Are you okay?" into Steve’s ear, as he curves an arm around Steve’s middle. He smells like coffee, crisp detergent, and a hint of tobacco, and is warmer than any summer day Steve experienced in California. He gently guides Steve to the booth he was occupying, tips him into one side of it, and quietly pushes his half-finished coffee toward him.

"Drink up, pal; you're a little far gone, I think," he says. His eyes are warm with amusement despite the gaunt nature of his face; Steve remembers a fuller face, and more amusement, but the crinkles at the corners and the tone of his voice are exactly the way they were the last time they spoke. He's different than Steve remembers, in slight, small ways. The ways one would expect after years apart, after years of living. Older, darker, and freer. "I'm John, by the way."

Steve finally reacts, finally acknowledges the man in front of him. There are a million questions on the tip of his tongue, and none of them make it out. He wants to ask why he calls himself John, wants to know where he thinks he came from, wants to know if he feels deep in his soul that he doesn’t belong here, if he recognizes Steve on some primal, instinctual level. Instead, he says, "I'm Steve."

He takes a sip of the coffee, and is instantly startled that it's exactly the way he takes his -- two creams, four sugars. Bucky always took his black, but would steal sips of Steve's when he thought Steve wasn't looking; there would always be jokes about how Steve was going to regret ingesting all that sugar, how his drink was too fancy for Buck’s palate. Steve hides his shock well, just takes another long sip of the coffee; he notices the guy who brought him into the diner hasn't even noticed he left, and is nursing a fourth beer, carrying the same conversation as before. Unsure what to do, unsure if looking at Bucky will kill him or worse, Steve stares down at the coffee, swirls it about the cup, and takes another sip. His courage finds him, and he looks up.

'John' quirks an eyebrow at him before grinning full force; something in Steve breaks, because it's the same smile Bucky shot at him the first time they stumbled out of bed together wearing more hickeys than clothes. It’s blinding, pure, and alluring all at once. It’s the promise of danger and trouble, and the whispers of love and security. Steve is still digesting that unbidden memory when 'John' starts talking. "So, do you not drink much? I mean, the beer here's not terrible, but it's definitely not strong enough for you to be stumbling the way you did after only three. Not that I was eavesdropping or anything. Just...this place is small and voices carry."

Steve shrugs halfheartedly, attempts a smile, and says, “Well, we can’t all be dark and mysterious in the corner. Someone’s gotta be the town fool.” Bucky laughs, full, rich, and deep. _Even his laugh is the same as it used to be,_ Steve thinks. "Thanks for the save, and for the coffee," he manages to add, noting somewhere along the way that his voice that doesn't quite sound like himself. He smiles again, and though it feels fake to him, it must see real enough to 'John' because he gets another glowing one in return.

"No problem, man," he says. "Hope it's okay, I take it a little sweet these days. Not really sure why; I normally take it black."

Steve’s smile freezes on his face at that, and Bucky gestures for another cup from a passing waitress before speaking again. "So, Steve, you're obviously new in town, because I've never seen you here before."

Steve nods, focuses on resweetening his newly refilled coffee, and rolls around ways to answer that question without scaring Bucky. "Sort of. I'm in town rebuilding the bleachers in the stadium. It was supposed to be a three month gig, and then I'd keep driving, but the weather had other opinions on that."

"Oh, you're that guy," Bucky says, taking a drink of his coffee. "I saw you a couple days before the big storm hammering away on a row of seats. Thought about coming to say hello, but I wasn't sure you'd be receptive to being hit on while you were shirtless and sweaty," he adds with a wink.

Steve feels his face and neck flush in an odd mixture of embarrassment, guilt, and arousal. The delivery is one hundred percent classic Bucky, and so is the idea of hitting on someone while shirtless and sweaty; the first time Bucky finally laid out what he wanted from Steve, they had just finished a two mile run, and were lying on the grass in a vacant lot, looking up at one of the few unobstructed patches of sky in the city.

"I probably wouldn't have minded too much," he mumbles. Realistically, he might have fallen off the bleachers. It wasn't enough that he'd found Bucky, but Bucky also seemed to have no idea who Steve was, and to top it off, he was still attracted to Steve. The guilt was nearly overwhelming; what kind of person was he if he was willing to flirt with and get to know this guy as 'John' instead of telling him the truth?

He shoves the guilt down, and clinks his mug of coffee with the one _'John'_ extends toward him, and they both grin and laugh. Steve downs his coffee in one last gulp, and prepares an excuse to go home so he can endure the massive freakout that he's definitely headed toward. Just like it used to be back when 'John' was still Bucky, Steve is beaten to the punch.

"So, now that I know you're open to me hitting on you and we’ve shared a cup of coffee, what do you say we skip the rest of the niceties and you let me take you out to dinner? Say, Friday at 7? Don't worry, there's a town nearby with a really great steak joint, you won't have to go out with me where you know people."

Before he can even contemplate, Steve finds himself agreeing, telling Bucky where he's staying, and insisting on paying the tip since his coffee was technically stolen. They exchange grins that are far more shy and hesitant than the bold, even leery ones from barely ten minutes ago, but they are no less genuine. Unsure what to do, Steve awkwardly shoves his left hand in his pocket, and lifts his right to fix his hair; it’s something he’s always done when nervous, and something Bucky used to make fun of him for.

‘John’ is no exception, and he barks out a laugh, one that has all the nerves dissipating instantly. “No need to be nervous, Steve. I think you’re hot, clearly you see something in the mess that is me.” He grabs Steve’s phone, keys his number into the notepad, and swiftly hands it back; Steve is momentarily grateful he doesn’t have a picture of the two of them as his wallpaper anymore. “I’ll pick you up Friday night, and all you gotta do is show up looking at least half as pretty as you do right now.” With that, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek. It’s so swift that Steve wonders if Bucky’s afraid he won’t let him do it, as if they haven’t done far more intimate things; it’s a few moments before he remembers again that Bucky isn’t Bucky.

By the time he’s realizing what happened, ‘John’ is opening the diner door and peeking back over his shoulder; he and Steve make eye contact, and he winks, lifting his hand in farewell. Steve is certain he’s turned entirely red now, but manages a shy wave back. Suddenly, he remembers that he came to the diner with someone, and he dashes over to say his goodbye before taking the short walk down the road to his motel. He lasts until he’s inside before the tears start to fall. It’s been five long, miserable years running from his past, running from his losses, running from his memories. Five years of mourning the only person he ever loved, the only person he’s ever been with, the only person who, regardless of anything else in their lives, was going to be with him ‘til the end of the line.

He tears at his clothes, desperate to get them off and erase any scent this version of Bucky left on him; he feels like he’s wrapped up in it, like if he can’t get rid of it now, he never will, and he’ll forget the way _his_ Bucky smelled, the way _his_ Bucky felt, the way _his_ Bucky was. His hand ghosts over the tattoo he had done in the first town he stopped in after leaving Brooklyn. It’s a simple symbol of a shield with a star in the center, a mark that was on the wall of the restaurant where he and Bucky kissed for the first time. It’s nothing intricate, and it’s easy to brush off as a silly whim of his youth when others ask, but for him, it’s enough to keep the best memories of Bucky with him. It’s enough to remind him that once he loved, and was loved.

Now, though, it reminds him that he found the man he loved, only to not be recognized. To be given a false name, and to be on the receiving end of his very favorite smile, only to remember with a jolt that it’s not the same. The soft massaging his hand has been doing on the tattoo has turned to scratching, to clawing; he wishes now that he’d never gotten it. Wishes now that he’d never stopped in this town, that he’d never gone to the diner, that he’d never said yes to the date.

Because no matter what he sees and no matter what he knows and no matter what he feels, Bucky _isn’t_ Bucky anymore. He’s John now, and that’s all he knows. It’s not on Steve to uproot that, to try to make him remember his life, or what happened, or how he ended up here. With a sigh and a cringe, he stops picking at his skin, and crawls into bed, hoping his dreams will take him somewhere with less guilt, with less hope, less...everything. Sleep takes him quickly, and in it, he finds momentary peace.

* * *

Momentary seems to be the operative word, since Steve wakes up nearly ten hours later, only to find that the memory of stumbling upon Bucky is still extremely raw and fresh in his mind. It’s as though he didn’t sleep at all, as though he can still smell, hear, and feel Bucky all around him. The smell lingers in the room, emanating from the pile that is Steve’s outfit from the night before, all stark detergent and tobacco and just a hint of coffee. It’s all wrong and not his Bucky, yet it’s completely right in that selfsame sense.

In his mind, the words ring loud and clear, _“I’m John, by the way.”_ The voice is distant, similar to the one he’s always loved, and changed to something new and foreign all at once. His chest, abdomen, lower back, waist, and cheek burn from the touches of the previous night; the ghost of a clutch, of a gentle nudge, of a kiss. Touches that were there once before, given by the same man and yet by a different man. Bucky is everywhere, and he is nowhere; at the end of it all, he’s not really Bucky.

Steve lies in his bed for what feels like hours, but after glancing at the clock, he realizes it’s barely been a few minutes. It’s Sunday, so he doesn’t have to get up any time soon, doesn’t have to go work on the bleachers, doesn’t have to pray he doesn’t run into Bucky and wind up changing his mind about the date, or about it not being on him to make Bucky remember who he is. He can stay in his room all day, can order in food, can pretend there isn’t a world outside his door where his best friend -- _the love of his life_ \-- is walking around like there wasn’t a gaping hole where he belonged for the last almost five years. He can turn on the television, turn up the radio, drown out the noise, silence the voices in his head; he can pretend he’s okay, and he can fall apart where nobody will see.

In the corner of the room is a box that goes with Steve everywhere he travels; it’s never opened, never touched with anything less than the highest amount of care, and most of the time, Steve forgets he’s brought it along. But this morning, surrounded by the new scent of Bucky, drowning in the fresh visions of the man he’s become, the box sits like a ticking bomb. It seems to grow in size and loudness as the minutes drag on, and eventually, Steve moves toward it as if pulled by some force greater than himself.

He carefully undoes the latch, lifts the lid, and stares at the contents. Bucky’s letterman jacket. A few polaroids. The menu from the restaurant they had their first date. Small mementos that Steve collected over the years, that Bucky told him were cheesy and dumb; Steve never told Bucky he saw him open the box every time he came over, never mentioned that he had committed the reverent expression Bucky wore to memory.

Now, it was Steve’s turn to wear the expression, Steve’s turn to run his thumb gently over the polaroids, Steve who picked up the jacket and held it soft against his face, inhaling the scent of both of them, the lingering tones of Bucky’s favorite cologne and Steve’s odd combination of musk and aftershave. He remembers the day Bucky gave him the jacket, remembers the looks they’d gotten when Steve wore it out one day, remembers someone mumbling a slur, and remembers pulling Bucky off some random guy from the football team, blood that both was and wasn’t his dripping from his knuckles. There are still bloodstains on the sleeve from where Steve fretted about Bucky’s face; the scar is still there just above his eyebrow even now, even on the face that is ‘John.’

When Steve finally lowers the jacket from his face, he notices the tearstains he left on the collar. He didn’t even know he had started crying, but it doesn’t surprise him that he did. The day the bloodstains appeared on the sleeve was the same day Bucky first said _“I love you.”_ Steve didn’t immediately say it back, and Bucky understood the hesitancy, the fear Steve had of loving someone else and losing them; it’s almost funny now, that Steve gave in and loved Bucky anyway, and lost him all the same. With a rough shake of his head, Steve carefully folds the jacket up and places it back into the box, shutting the lid softly, and closing the latch. There’s no use living in the memories, he decides, not when Bucky is out there, within his grasp after all these years, lost and found.

He steels his shoulders and scoops up his laundry from the night before, as well as everything he’s worn over the past week, and throws them into a duffel bag. A quick rifling of his drawers tells him that he actually does need to wash his clothes, and that makes it easier for him to justify the impromptu trip to the next town over for use of a laundromat. If it also opens up to him the possibility of a bar he might not see Bucky in, well, that’s just a bonus. He does a quick sweep of the room to make sure he hasn’t missed anything, and grabs his wallet and keys. It’s times like these he’s grateful he didn’t just skip town on his dad’s old bike, glad he took his mom’s old station wagon instead. Sometimes he misses the feel of the road so close under his feet, and the wind whipping across his face, but more than anything, he’s grateful that the car symbolizes the four solid walls he doesn’t really have in moving from place to place so often.

He throws his bag into the passenger seat and slides in easily to the driver’s; the key turns in the ignition and the radio flares to life, playing whatever comes up on shuffle on his iPod. With a pang, he realizes it’s one of Bucky’s old favorites, a Joni Mitchell tune, all rasp and soul and heartache. Steve used to make fun of Bucky for his taste in music, until he finally started to understand some of the words. They were about the pain and torment of the world, and yet the sounds managed to morph into ecstatic beauty that Steve is sure no other artist came near achieving. He’s sure that’s what Bucky always tried to communicate; how fitting that he’d understand it only when Bucky was gone.

The next town is only a few minutes down the road, a little thing hardly larger than the one he’s staying in, but at least featuring a larger and more modern laundromat. It doesn’t hurt, Steve decides, that there is a dive bar directly across the road. He throws his clothes into two machines, separating out his darks and lights, pays the attendant to keep an eye on his stuff -- not that anyone would really want his ratty clothes anyway -- and informs him he’ll be at the bar. He checks his wallet, counts his bills, and decides he can afford a few beers. There aren’t many people sitting at the bar, as it’s still the mid-afternoon, and Steve slides onto a stool in the corner, waving the bartender over and asking for whatever is on tap.

The next thing he knows, he’s slurring his words, his vision is blurred, and someone he doesn’t recognize is saying something about his clothes. It takes more time than he’s proud to admit before he realizes it’s the attendant from the laundromat; he’s on his break, and is trying to communicate to Steve that his clothes have been done for nearly two hours. Steve is unable to form a response, hardly able to even keep his head up straight, and the guy shakes his head. At some point, the bartender finds Steve’s phone, and Steve hears her say something about _“He needs a ride.”_ He tries to protest, but he can’t even be sure that real words have come out of his mouth.

After what feels like a blink of his eyes, Steve feels someone peeling his face off the bar, wrapping an arm around his waist, half-carrying him out of the bar. The same someone mumbles something about whether or not they’re always going to be catching him, and they set him gently in the passenger seat of his station wagon. His head rests against the windowpane, and the mystery person disappears into the laundromat before returning with Steve’s duffel of clean clothes.

The bag is tossed into the backseat, and whoever saved him slides into the car, starting it and heading back for town. They must take the long way round, because by the time Steve wakes up, he’s nearing the edge of sober, at least enough to recognize his surroundings. The first thing he’s overly aware of is the smell surrounding him. Instead of a bar or his usual detergent, it’s a crisp, clean detergent, a hint of tobacco, and a lot of coffee. _“Bucky?”_ he mumbles.

“Hm? It’s John, Steve. The bartender called me, said I was the only number in your phone.”

With a jolt, Steve remembers that Bucky isn’t Bucky. Remembers why he had to do laundry. Remembers why he got drunk. He realizes gratefully that the car has just slowed to a stop outside his motel, and he quickly opens the door, leans over, and vomits. He retches until his stomach is empty, until it nearly hurts to breathe from the force exerted on his ribcage, until his head is swimming. Bucky has rushed out of the car, and has a hand running up and down Steve’s spine, gentle, yet firm.

He’s mumbling that Steve is okay, to let it all out, that he’s right there. Steve heaves again at the words, even if Bucky doesn’t know they’re the cause. Instead of recoiling, his movements continue, the pressure deepens, and his mumblings turn into soft shushes. When Steve finally stops retching, Bucky carefully heaves Steve to his feet, and actually scoops him up bridal style and carries him to the door. With an air of grace that Steve hasn’t seen since back before Bucky was injured and sidelined in football, Bucky manages to unlock the door, kick it open, and slip inside with Steve in his arms before it shuts itself on them.

He makes his way to the bed and deposits Steve upon it before heading back out to grab the laundry and lock the car. After he’s got everything situated, he gets a water bottle and fills a glass for Steve, leaving it on the bedside table. Steve is curled into the pillow, groaning, and whining a little, and Bucky smiles almost fondly at him. “I’m gonna go, Steve, okay? I’ve gotta go pick up my car where I left it. You just sleep.” He hesitates before he tucks Steve in, and presses a firm, lingering kiss to Steve’s sweaty forehead, his fingers ghosting over Steve’s hair before pushing it away from the damp skin. “Just sleep, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes crack open just in time to see Bucky exit the room; he wonders if this turn of events will make everything better or worse come Friday night. Before he can dwell for too long, he passes out cold.

* * *

The next few days go by in a blur, and it’s difficult for Steve to not dwell. He returns to work on the stadium, finding there’s more to patch than he anticipated; it’s going to be as much work saving what he’s already done as it is to finish the set in the first place. His mind supplies that that’s more time to spend trying to get Bucky to come ‘round to remembering, but a small, nagging voice tells him Bucky should’ve remembered by now if he was ever going to. So he works, and his hammer becomes his outlet. There’s an unsteady rhythm to the work, and it seems to run concurrently with his heartbeat; hard, fast, struggling to find a pace. It’s Wednesday before he allows himself to focus more on the details of the weekend; his shame has kept him from looking back.

Three days into sorting the wreckage of his work, he’s finally got it into three piles: salvageable, potentially salvageable, and utter garbage. He focuses on the second of the three, and grants his mind the freedom to wander, doesn’t have any energy left to fight off the memories. It’s mostly bits and pieces, flashes of things he’s not entirely sure are memories from this weekend, things that seem too similar to his past to possibly be his present. He remembers going to the laundry, and the clean clothes in his dresser are proof enough that memory is real. He remembers going to the bar across the street to try and clear his mind, and his suddenly empty wallet is proof enough that memory is real. From there, things get a little foggy.

He’s about ninety seven percent sure he didn’t imagine Bucky coming to pick him up after the bartender was kind enough to call someone for him, and he definitely remembers that it was Bucky who was rubbing his back as he puked out of the side of his car; it’s reconciling these two memories that is difficult. Steve presumes that can be attributed to the amount of alcohol in his system, and the fact that he more than likely passed out in the five minute car ride from town to town.

He’s not sure what’s more worrying - that this memory is nearly a carbon copy of the first time he ever got drunk and Bucky had to be the designated driver, or that Bucky, ( _No,_ , his mind offers, _John_ ), has seen what a broken, sad shell of a person he is. He’s seen him drunk, and drunk is a thing Steve tries not to be. Not since Bucky disappeared. Because when he’s drunk he can remember the way Bucky felt under him. He can remember the exact sharp scent of his cologne, can hear the rich laughter, can nearly reach out and run his hand through thick brown hair brushing against his cheek. When he’s drunk, Steve comes undone.

He knows Bucky was there, that fact in his memories cannot be denied. He only wonders now what he might have said, and whether Bucky is put off by any of it. Steve hasn’t yet figured out how he got from hurling out of his car to curled up in bed, can’t remember how his shoes were removed and placed neatly by the door, doesn’t remember cleaning up his mess from the day before and knows he never called for maid services. His clothes were put away in the dresser by the time he woke up sober enough to notice, and he was no longer in the clothes that reeked of stale beer and the tang of vomit. Rather, he was in a pair of sweatpants he knows he never owned, and one of his clean, crisp white tees.

The idea of Bucky doing all of this while he was drunk off his ass and so hungover he couldn’t see straight both excites and infuriates Steve. Bucky somehow remembered exactly how Steve folded his shirts, knew which drawer was for which article of clothing, recalled that Steve’s shoes always go by the door. There was nothing in the room to indicate any of this, meaning that some part of Bucky’s mind still knew these things to be true. To Steve, that served as a ray of hope that Bucky, _his Bucky_ , might still dwell within John. And yet…Steve couldn’t help but feel angry that Bucky would easily recall these things and couldn’t remember him.

Steve had made a point, in the years since Bucky vanished, to not change a single thing about his appearance that he could control. He never grew a beard, never changed his hairstyle, kept buying the same generic articles of clothing. He grew a few inches and put on a bit of muscle since the last time he and Bucky had video-chatted, but that was the only tangible, visible difference. Well…that and his eyes; Mrs. Barnes pointed it out to him the day before he fled Brooklyn. _“Your eyes are far too sad for one so young,”_ she’d said. _“I miss James every day and I’m going to miss him for the rest of my life. You will too. But I think we both know he wouldn’t want you to be so sad. He’d want you to find a way to move on.”_

Steve has put such an effort into being the same man, at least externally, hoping beyond hope that one day he would find Bucky again, and he would recognize him immediately. Now he’s found him, and the only thing Bucky remembers is how he takes his coffee and where he puts his shirts. He knows it’s wrong to be angry at Bucky, knows somewhere in the back of his mind that there’s a reason Bucky doesn’t remember anything, knows it can’t be as simple as wanting to remember, knows it won’t be like the movies where a single word or a gesture or a kiss will bring it all back like they’re Disney princesses who have finally found their happy ending. It’s not cut and dry. It lives somewhere in the middle, in the grey areas, where the rest of the world exists, and because of that, he’s angry and hopeful at the same time. Maybe it will be fixed one day, and maybe it won’t; he supposes that same statement can be made about life in general. There are no guarantees that happiness will happen, only the opportunity to try for it.

Lost in his thoughts as he strips away the storm damaged pieces of wood from those that he thinks he can salvage, Steve doesn’t notice the car pull up next to his. He doesn’t have music playing today, doesn’t think he could handle the noise being added to the warring sounds in his own mind; the only sound he hears is his own ragged breath and the snap-snap-snap of the wood he’s pulling apart in his hands. He doesn’t hear the footprints shuffling through the dirt of the track. He’s working on a particularly difficult couple of pieces, stuck together by the nails he hammered in himself, as well as what appears to be far more water damage than possible for something exposed in such a short storm. Granted, all of the wood was not yet coated with protectant from the outdoors, which is something he’s planning on doing differently this time around.

He’s nearly jimmied the pieces apart when a throat clears, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. He turns slowly, a sinking feeling telling him he’s about to see Bucky, and when he finally looks up, he’s relieved to see he’s wrong. As soon as the relief washes over him, he curses himself; Bucky might not be Bucky right now, but that doesn’t mean he’s not himself at all, and that means that Steve still needs to keep him close, keep him safe, keep him in sight. Still, the relief is nearly tangible, and as he looks up into the face of his boss on the job, Richard, he notes the man appears to be fighting a laugh.

“Damn, kid, I don’t know who you were expectin’, but I’m glad for you I ain’t him,” he says, tone colored with suppressed mirth. He takes a quick glance around, walking over to each pile of wood and seemingly inspecting them. “So from the looks of things, you’re gonna be stickin’ around a while longer, huh?”

Steve pulls off the leather gloves he’s wearing and drags a hand across his sweaty brow. “Yeah, looks like.” He wordlessly opens the cooler he’s got under the section of bleachers still standing and pulls out two Cokes, passing one to Richard. “S’not the worst town to get stuck in, though. And, hey, if I keep having setbacks, clearly I can count on you to buy me a few rounds at the diner out of sympathy,” he jokes, referring to their not-quite-hangout a few days prior.

Richard cracks open his Coke, takes a swig, and nods. “You’re right about it not being the worst place to get stuck, but kid, I gotta admit I don’t like the idea of you being stuck here. It’s pretty much a one horse town and everyone knows everyone, all the kids at the highschool know their parents went to school together…I just think…you’re clearly skilled at this. God knows what else you can do. Why stick around somewhere like this if you can go do anything?”

Steve is astonished at the serious tone the conversation has taken, particularly given the fact that up to this very moment Richard has shown little interest in them. Even during their outing to the diner, he’d paid more attention to his friend who owned the joint. Granted, Steve couldn’t complain there since he quickly took off once he spotted Bucky. Still, he hadn’t taken Richard for the sort to care so much about a grifter. “It’s a long story, Richard,” is what he settles for. “A long story and an even longer road getting here. But…I think I’ve found something worth staying for. At least for a while.”

“And would this something happen to be a someone?”

Steve flushes, and halfheartedly raises and drops one shoulder. “Maybe.”

A slow, easy smile crosses Richard’s face and Steve flushes deeper. “If it’s that kid John I saw you talking to at the diner last week, I’m glad. Kid showed up here a coupla years ago, not a penny to his name and only the shirt on his back. Didn’t wanna share anything with anyone, save a meal or two pushed his way. Eventually, we all just chalked it up to his being withdrawn. We could all tell he’d seen some shit, so we let it go. He’ll say hello to everyone he passes, and he works over at the mechanic’s shop, but he’s never really taken to anyone.” Richard pauses, and takes another gulp of his drink. “If you can get through to him, I’m glad for you both. You two are too goddamn young to act like the world is exactly what Holden Caulfield described.”

Steve cocks an eyebrow at the _Catcher_ reference, and Richard barks out a laugh. “What? I graduated high school, I’ve read a book or two.” He downs the rest of his Coke in one, tosses it in the bin, and lifts a hand in farewell, heading back to his truck, and calling over his shoulder, “Don’t work yourself too hard, kid. You’ve got plenty of time.”

Steve waves back, and slips his gloves back on, returning to the fused together pieces he’d been working on. He contemplates what Richard said, and realizes that he’s already resolved to see this through with Bucky one way or another; it doesn’t matter anymore if he’s stuck with John or if there’s a chance to get Bucky out of his own mind. All that matters is he’s safe, alive, _real_. From the sounds of it, Bucky, even as John, hasn’t connected to anyone since he vanished; he can’t quite decide what it means that he’s chosen Steve to connect with, all these years later. Something akin to hope blooms deep in Steve’s heart, and he finds it difficult to focus for the remainder of his work day. Once he’s officially supposed to be off the clock - though there is no clocking in or out, he’s being paid for eight hour work days - he puts his gear away and speeds to his motel, pulling his phone out in the short drive.

His hand trembles slightly as he begins to type, but he doesn’t care, pushes through it. He shoots a short text to John, asking if he’d like to meet for coffee at the diner. As expected, his phone begins ringing a few moments later. “Hello?” he says upon answering, attempting to sound nonchalant.

John’s voice is rich with amusement, and Steve can hear the stifled laughter, knows what it sounds like coming out of that mouth. “Thought I was taking you out on Friday, punk?”

Steve jolts at the jab, the word being something of a pet name Bucky used to have for him, something he seriously doubts John remembers. It brings back a few memories, though, and he can’t help his response. “Yeah, well, maybe Friday’s not soon enough, did you ever think of that, ya jerk?”

That actually draws a genuine laugh out of John, and Steve fights pumping his fist in victory. “Hey, fair enough. I mean, who am I to deny you the perfect specimen that is me?”

This is easy. This is natural. Verbal sparring with Bucky, no matter who he is, is something that will always be second-nature to Steve, and for that, he’s grateful. It makes it easier to begin loosening his hold on the notion that Bucky always has to be Bucky for Steve to love him. “So, I’m assuming that’s a yes.”

“One condition.”

“Okay…”

“Please don’t puke on me again.”

Steve blanches, doesn’t _remember_ puking on him, and then he realizes John’s deadpan voice is the same as Bucky’s was. “Oh, you complete bastard, you damn well _know_ there’s some shit I don’t remember from being hungover.” He pulls the phone away from his ear as John howls with laughter. “Oh, yeah, laugh it up, asshat, see if I foot the bill tonight,” he says, putting some mock-hurt into his voice.

John controls his laughter before speaking again, which, admittedly, takes a nearly two full minutes. “Okay, so a non-date date, and I’m buying, because, yes, you’re right, I’m an asshole. Or, no, wait. You said _asshat_ didn’t you? I’ll even buy you flowers! Oh, I know, I’ll write you a poem! Nah, not cheesy enough. Hmm, maybe I’ll rig the jukebox to only play the single Joni Mitchell tune in it all night.”

Steve freezes again; that’s two things in one single conversation that are distinctly Bucky, not John. _But,_ a voice in his mind offers, _John is Bucky and Bucky is John._ Whether or not Bucky is able to reconcile the two, Steve must. He can’t hope to get through to either of them if he doesn’t. “For your information, I love Joni Mitchell,” he fibs, hoping that even as John, Bucky’ll read the lie and call him on his bluff. Truth told, he wonders if being on a date with one of her songs playing will stir something in Bucky.

As though he can tell the exact reaction Steve wants, John scoffs. “Oh, you say that now, but just you wait until I’ve got you listening to _Both Sides Now_ for two hours.”

Steve laughs, only slightly astonished at how simple this all seems to be. “I’ve gotta catch a quick shower since I’m just getting done with work, but I’ll meet you at the diner in, say, thirty minutes?”

“Sure thing. You’re the man with the plan, after all. I’m just following your lead. See you soon.”

Steve practically flies from his car and into his room, nearly tearing his shirt as he strips it off and heads into the bathroom. Tonight is resolutely not their first date; he finds himself clinging to the ‘non-date date’ label John threw out, and decides it’s correct. Tonight is to remind himself that he’s found the person he’s been searching for these past years, to remind himself that love will overcome anything, and to shake off any fear or shame or embarrassment he’s bottling. He set out on his road trip all those months ago to find the love of his life and now that he has, he’s holding on as tight as he can. He remembers his mindset when he left Brooklyn, remembers the mentality that he had nobody to answer to without Bucky; the relief that washes over him at being held accountable to somebody again - at being held accountable to _Bucky_ again - nearly drops him to his knees.

* * *

When Friday finally rolls around, Steve has replayed their coffee non-date thousands of times in his mind. They met at the diner as planned, and ordered coffees and pastries, tucking into the same booth they sat in the night they “met.” They drink their way through nearly four pots of coffee, nearly eat the diner empty of baked goods, and do more laughing than talking. They talk about nothing and everything all at once, and Steve manages to steer away from any discussion about their shared history and even about Brooklyn; he tells John about the south, about the feel of the ocean on a cool day in California, about the unending peace of the forests. John, in return, shares his own memories, and Steve clings to them, enraptured and thankful. Though John doesn’t share much - whether it’s because he doesn’t remember much, or because he’s embarrassed by some of it, Steve isn’t sure - he shares enough that Steve is thankful that he’s apparently been alright since disappearing, lack of memories notwithstanding.

Eventually, the diner had to close, and the owner very reluctantly shooed them out; upon exiting, John pulls out a carton of Marlboro Lights and sticks one between his teeth before holding the carton out to Steve. After a moment of contemplation, Steve takes one; Bucky once bought a pack of cigarettes, Steve recalls. He had just turned eighteen, and wanted to exercise one of the few rights that came with it; in the dingy alleyway behind the bar that let them drink underage, they lit a couple of them and tried to smoke them. Steve struggled with the inhaling bit, the smoke tickling at the edge of his asthma, a warning in the back of his throat that this could be dangerous, while Bucky’s face scrunched in disgust at the flavor. _‘Man, there are people who actually like this shit?’_ he’d asked incredulously. Steve had coughed in response, and Bucky’d glanced at him guiltily, snatching his cigarette away and snuffing them both out. _‘What the hell was I thinking? Your asthma!’_

Steve fights a smile at the recollection, and wonders how John likes the taste; as if on cue, John pulls a zippo out of his back pocket, lights Steve’s cigarette first and then his own, taking a long drag as he does so. “Man, I really wish these tasted better,” he all but whines.

Steve grins and takes a drag from his, pleased it was easier than when he was a scrawny teenager. He supposes all the pot smoking in California eased him up to this; if he was one to put stock in fate, he’d say the universe knew this exact moment was coming, and that’s why he accepted the bong from the hippies in the redwood groves two years ago. The cigarettes fogged his mind in a different way, almost like an instant intoxication, something not unlike the feeling of a shot of bourbon on an empty stomach. They share a companionable silence as they smoke, standing side by side, leaning on the wall of the diner that leads into the alleyway. It’s familiar and new in a million different ways, and Steve wants to count them all.

With a shake of his head, he shoves the memories of the night aside, and focuses back on his work. He and John are going on their ‘real’ date tonight, and the excitement crawling under his skin has him feeling jittery. He knows there’s nothing to be nervous about, knows they got all of that out over coffee and even over his embarrassment of a weekend; he feels like he’s a teenager again, waiting for the other shoe to drop and Bucky to tell him it was a joke. The hours drag by at a snail’s pace, and Steve gets more work done in the one day than he has all week. He’s got an alarm on his phone set to remind him when it’s time to go home - _no, not home_ a voice in his head reminds him, _you don’t live here_ \- and shower; when it finally chimes, Steve drops his tools with such force that he accidentally fractures the piece of wood he was working on salvaging. Unable to control his emotions, he laughs uproariously at the sight, and kindly admonishes himself for acting like a fool in love. He is in love, but tonight is about falling in love with someone new.

Steve always liked to think he would fall in love with Bucky in different, exciting, and varying ways as they grew up. That he would fall in love with the way Bucky’s hair changed colors, that Bucky would fall in love with the neurotic way Steve studied for classes in college, that they would, together, fall in love with how the other behaved as a parent. A part of him mourns the loss of that as he tries to let it go in order to be fair to John, but another part of him is trying to believe that perhaps John is just another one of those ways Steve was always supposed to fall in love with Bucky.

* * *

Twenty minutes after Steve gets back to the motel, there’s a gentle knock at the door. Steve has showered, shaved, and spent fifteen minutes cursing himself for literally only owning jeans and plain shirts; he doesn’t even have so much as a button-down, and makes a mental note to go shopping as soon as possible. He finally settles on a plain black tee and his one nice jacket, an old leather one that used to belong to his father. Realizing he’s left John waiting for nearly two whole minutes, he rushes to the door and opens it, face flush with embarrassment. “Sorry, I just have to slip my shoes on. Took a bit of a long shower after work,” he explains, ushering John inside.

John laughs - whether at Steve’s clear awkwardness or the flush on his face, Steve can’t be sure - and shrugs, falling into the armchair in the corner. “Take your time. Our reservation isn’t until 7, I just wanted to give us some wiggle room on the drive.”

Steve is hunched over on the edge of the bed, tying the laces on his nicer pair of sneakers, and he looks up. “Reservations? Just how fancy a place are you taking me?” he asks, making certain to not sound like he’s objecting.

John sticks out his tongue, and Steve barks out a laugh before focusing his attention back on his shoes. “Don’t worry, Mr. Construction Worker, I’ve got tonight covered. And it’s not the fanciest place, I just wanted a very particular table.” When Steve glances up this time, John winks at him as he stands. “You all ready to go, then?”

Steve stands as well, and takes the hand being held out to him as he replies, “Ready.” A small part of him is grateful John can’t hear that his heart just skipped a beat. He thinks he’s ready to jump into this with John but…part of him still clings to the past.

* * *

The drive to the restaurant isn’t too bad, Steve decides. It’s barely thirty minutes, and John’s music taste is unlike Bucky’s just enough that it still feels like him without being overwhelming. John asks about Steve’s day at work, and Steve laughs. “I’m laying wood for a set of bleachers. It’s honestly the same every single day. What about you, fix any good cars lately?”

John shrugs. “Mr. Riley doesn’t really let me work on too many of ‘em. A lot of the folks we see are regulars, people whose parents had their cars fixed by him, and their parents’ cars fixed by his parents. It’s too familial to really have let me into the circle. Every now and then, though, we get a tourist who took a wrong turn. Today, I had the distinct pleasure of changing the alternator in some souped-up SUV that clearly was more at home in a big city. Other’n that, I mostly balance the books.” Steve tries to look nonchalant - Bucky hated math more than anything. “Don’t know why he has me balance ‘em, though,” John continues. “I’m not the best mathematician. Plus, I hate it.”

Steve laughs appropriately, and notices they’re pulling up to the restaurant. True to his word, the place John has brought them isn’t too upscale, though it’s clearly leagues above the diner setting of the non-date. They climb out of the car almost in unison, and John holds his hand out to Steve once more, who accepts it easily. Steve opens the door to the restaurant from them, and John drops his hand to head over to talk to the hostess. Before Steve even has a moment to sit down in the waiting area, John’s grabbing for his hand again and nodding after the hostess, who is apparently leading them to their table. They follow in silence, and return her warm smile as they sit. She takes their drink orders and leaves them with menus as she heads back to the hostess stand.

“So,” John starts as he peers over the menu. “Order whatever the hell you want. I’m having the sirloin, so if you’re one of those people who feels guilty getting something more expensive than their date, you can start there.” He winks at Steve as his foot brushes Steve’s ankle, letting Steve know he’s mostly teasing.

Steve laughs and flips his menu to the seafood section. “Just for that, I should order the steak and lobster,” he says, pressing his ankle into the pressure John’s putting on it. John grins and ducks his head, and they both go back to perusing the menu. When their server comes and introduces herself, they both state they’re ready to order. True to his word, John orders the sirloin, and Steve, partly to screw with John and partly because he now can’t get it out of his head, orders the steak and lobster plate. John’s clearly pleased at this, because he just laughs amiably and lets one of his hands reach over the table to hold Steve’s.

“So, on our non-date, you told me you lived in California for a while? Other than the beaches and the skyline, what was it like?” John asks, seeming genuinely interested.

Steve grins outwardly and inwardly - California is a safe topic, and if not for the reasons he found himself running there in the first place, it’s one of his happiest memories, making it all the more easy to talk about. “Is there anything in particular you want to know about? I lived all over the state over the course of two years.”

John contemplates for a moment before getting something of a twinkle in his eye. “Okay. Favorite food joint in the whole state, favorite place off the map you didn’t mean to end up in but did anyway, aaaaaaand…favorite landmark you saw while there,” he challenges.

Steve’s grin deepens, and he thinks about it for a moment. “Favorite food joint is easy. There’s this shop in Santa Barbara, an old Italian delicatessen owned by a married couple. They’ve got these sandwiches that are amazingly cheap and simultaneously the best thing you could ever find. It’s like, a french loaf or a sourdough, I can’t quite remember, and prosciutto, pepperoni, salami, pepperoncinis, provolone, and some kind of sauce. I can’t explain it, but the combination of all those things, and the sauce that they make themselves…god, now this lobster is gonna be so disappointing, all I can think about is that sandwich!”

Steve looks so put out thinking about the sandwich he’s describing that John tries - _really tries_ \- to not laugh. He’s incredibly unsuccessful, and Steve’s pout deepens, though it’s clear that now it’s exaggerated. “Okay, so favorite food joint done. Next!”

“That’s another easy one. Although, maybe not. It’s easy for me to say what it is, but it’s not easy to explain why it’s my favorite. It just made me laugh, I think. It’s this tiny little place up in Kern County called Pumpkin Center.” John bursts out laughing and Steve playfully kicks him under the table. “I’m serious, it’s a real place. Anyway, you really only see it if you’re on a particular interstate, but I’m pretty sure it said something like Population: Eighteen. Eighteen. In a whole town. I don’t know why, but when I saw that sign on the road, I just could not stop laughing. So it’s one of my favorite places to think about when I remember the two years there.”

It’s a lie, of course. Steve remembers why it made him laugh so much. Bucky used to be obsessed with towns with weird names, and Steve always told him he was the only person in America that liked those things. Bucky would argue that clearly he wasn’t, because _somebody_ had to have named the towns to begin with, to which Steve replied, ‘ _Yeah, but most of ‘em have a population of like, eighteen. Clearly, you’re in the minority here.’_ That he stumbled upon a town with an odd name, just like Bucky’d loved, and that it had a population of exactly eighteen felt too much like something from a fairy tale; after so much time spent hiding in his sadness, Steve couldn’t hold back the laughter that spilled out of him. He’s not lying when he tells John it’s one of his favorite things to think about.

“Jesus, I love towns with weird as fuck names,” John says, laughing at the idea of a place called Pumpkin Center. “Okay, last one and then I swear, you can ask me some dumb question.”

“Favorite landmark…easy. The redwood groves up in the northern area of the state.”

“Be honest, are you a nature nut? Tell me you’re not secretly with Greenpeace and you’re gonna convert me into going green or something,” John jokes.

“No, not at all. In fact, I’m from a big city. But there was just something about standing under those trees, looking up at the stars through the gaps in the leaves. I felt so incredibly small, and yet all at once, it was like I understood so much. I can’t really explain it. You’ll have to just take my word until you can go there yourself one day.”

John smiles gently at Steve and squeezes his hand. “Who knows, maybe you’ll take me there yourself. Anyway, what’s your question? It’s your turn now, after all.”

Steve bites back his real question, the one that’s been on the tip of his tongue since he first saw John in the diner - _how can you not remember me?_ “Well, my boss told me a bit about you after I ditched him for you that night in the diner, but he said nobody really knows anything about you prior to living here? What were you up to for the rest of your life?”

John’s grip on Steve’s hand tightens before loosening so much that Steve thinks he’s going to let go. He doesn’t, though, and with a sigh, he answers the question. “I’m not altogether sure. Docs say I’ve got some kind of retrograde amnesia. I can’t really remember anything before wandering into town about two years ago. There are flashes of stuff, big cities, taxis speeding by, things like that. But I can’t remember. And to be honest, I don’t really know what it would change. Sure, maybe I’d have a family, but the people here are kind enough. They took me in when I had nothing.” He looks up at Steve, almost defiantly, as if he’s challenging him to say that he’s a fool, or that he should want to remember.

Carefully, very carefully, Steve fashions his face into a look of acceptance and understanding before speaking. “No, I get that, John. I really do.” It kills Steve to remember, and he’s cursed with every single detail. He can’t imagine how Bucky would feel if he knew everything he’d left behind, can’t imagine him living with that. For the first time, Steve feels lucky to endure what he’s endured - loss is easy. Guilt isn’t.

John’s shoulders sag in relief, and Steve squeezes his hand. Just then, their server returns with their food, and they dig in simultaneously. Steve offers John half of his lobster, and John makes Steve try the potatoes that came with his steak. They talk more about the places Steve’s traveled and the cars John’s tuned up, about the people in the town who are genuinely good and those who seem to try too hard. Sooner than they anticipate, they’ve finished eating, and John’s paying the check while Steve leaves a tip. They stand, link hands again, and head out, Steve pausing to thank the hostess for their exemplary service. She blushes, and John snorts quietly as they exit. They pile back into the car, John opening Steve’s door for him, and as they pull out of the parking lot, Steve can tell he wants to say something. “What’s up?” he asks.

“Okay, this is gonna sound cheesy as hell, but…do you maybe wanna go for a walk? There’s a park nearby that’s really beautiful at night. It’s one of the few places with a really unobscured view of the sky. Not a streetlamp in sight.”

Steve reaches over and grabs John’s hand. “It’s a little cheesy, but yeah. Lets do it.”

John’s right, and the park is stunning. The moon is full, and lights their path, which is good considering John wasn’t joking about there not being streetlamps in sight. The moonlight also reflects upon the duck pond at the center of the park, and John leads them to its edge before laying down the blanked he’d pulled out of his trunk for them to sit on. They lie back, shoulder to shoulder, hands still clasped together, and look up at the sky in silence. Steve isn’t sure if this is a bit of Bucky bleeding through, or if John came to this conclusion all on his own, but stargazing used to be one of their favorite things to do. They used to drive hours out of their way just to find a clear sky and a place to sit quietly.

The silence is comfortable, and Steve is almost certain they’d fall asleep there if not for the fact that John’s begun shivering. Steve quickly sheds his jacket and drapes it over John, remembering that Bucky always ran a little colder than he did. In response, John drops his hold on Steve’s hand and instead lays his head on Steve’s chest, his arm wrapped around Steve’s middle. They stay that way for nearly two hours, huddled close and watching the sky, before they finally decide to call it a night and head back to town.

Bucky would’ve been jokingly presumptuous and headed straight back to his place, coyly asking Steve if he wants to come up; John, surprisingly, is different, and takes Steve straight back to his motel. He does, however, jump out to open the door for Steve, and upon reaching Steve’s room, he leans in without pretense and kisses him. The moment their mouths connect, Steve feels two resoundingly different shocks flow through him. A small one at the familiarity of the mouth his tongue is currently mapping, and a larger, more astonished one at how different it feels to kiss John. They part, say goodnight, share another, more chaste kiss, and head their separate ways.

Once inside, Steve considers the kiss, and the way he feels about it. It doesn’t take him long to realize that maybe, just maybe, he’s finally, actually letting go of Bucky. And maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world.

* * *

Over the next several weeks, Steve finds a steady groove at work and in his personal life. He and John grab lunch whenever they can, whether that means popping into the diner, or John bringing them cold cuts and colas and sitting on Steve’s partially completed set of bleachers. Their second date is in the same town as before, but a movie this time. They flip a coin between the cheesy, terrible looking horror movie and the drama that’s garnering awards buzz; the terrible horror film wins, and they laugh loudly as they buy their tickets. They’re the only ones in the theater, and find that makes viewing all the more pleasurable, as they’re free to loudly mock the premise and acting. At one point, John is laughing so deeply, so freely, that Steve sees a shadow of Bucky. He shakes it off, though, and by the time he’s quieted his mind, John’s hand is in his.

Richard insists on having the two of them attend the annual middle of summer school district barbecue, if only to try and glean more information about John. _‘Kid, you gotta un’erstand, you’ve gotten more out of him than any of us, and we’ve known him since day one. We’re just curious, is all.’_ Steve knows they all mean well and says as much to John, who concedes to attending only because it clearly means a lot to Steve. The barbecue turns out to be more fun than either of them anticipated, and John finds his sense of humor is appealing to nearly all the women in attendance, who hang on his every word. Steve stands near Richard for a long while, talking to the superintendent and district rep, eyes flitting toward John every now and then. Richard barks a laugh, claps him on the shoulder, and says, _‘Never you worry, Steve. I’ve seen the way that boy looks at you. He’s just being sociable.’_ Steve blushes, but stops glancing John’s way; when Steve stops, John starts.

Their third date is as simple as their second. Once again, they return to the neighboring town, this time to the park they had visited at night; Steve’s packed a picnic, and John’s promised to provide the music. They sit and eat with Joni Mitchell softly flowing from the stereo, and when they’ve eaten their fill, they start throwing bread to the flock of ducks. Steve doubles over in laughter as a goose chases John around the pond, and John tackles him for it. They lie where they fall, legs tangled and hair mussed, laughing and catching their breath. John scoots up a bit and kisses Steve softly, and when they part, their smiles have softened to something more heartfelt.

A few weeks pass where Steve can’t be bothered to really do anything after work other than just lie face down on the couch, so, after about ten days without a proper date, John offers to pick him up from work and cook dinner. Steve nearly says _but you burn soup!_ before remembering that that’s Bucky, and maybe John has learned how to cook without alerting the fire department of his attempts. He agrees to the date, and the next day, John picks him up promptly at five. They head to John’s apartment, and John cooks the best chicken and dumplings Steve’s had since his mother died. He and John curl up on John’s bed with the television on, and neither of them care enough to worry about getting Steve home at the end of the night.

Sleepovers become common after that, always at John’s, and Steve is always gone before John even wakes up. He never leaves without placing a note on the pillow or leaving breakfast in a pan on the stove, just so John knows he hasn’t bolted or ditched him. It gets to the point where the neighbors now ask John where Steve’s at if he’s ever alone, and when Steve heads into his motel room, the manager asks after John. Something warm in Steve begins to take root, pleased at the domesticity they’ve achieved, and at the fact that he’s genuinely falling for John, all ties to Bucky aside.

For a while, Steve feels guilty about not wanting to sleep with John, but John assures him it’s worth the wait, and promises not to press him. As he consistently has since first they met, John keeps the promise, and they never move beyond lazy makeouts in John’s bed, back of his car, and under the stars. Hands don’t wander and things are easy. Steve tells himself it’ll be soon; if he’s being honest, he wants to be sure he’s in love with John completely before they take the leap. The guilt would destroy him if he slept with John, only to wake with thoughts of Bucky.

* * *

It’s been almost five months since Steve came to town and started work on the bleachers, and, finally, he’s finished. Richard is there on his last day, watching Steve work with a broad grin on his face, and when Steve lays the coat of sealant on the set, Richard bursts into applause. “Good man!” he exclaims, clapping Steve on the shoulder, as he is wont to do. “You’ve done a superb job, Steve. So much so, in fact, that the district repurposed a few budgets, and we’re giving you a bonus in your final check. Don’t you dare protest,” he says, waving a hand just as Steve opens his mouth. “You deserve every goddamn penny, son.” Together, they collect their garbage from the day, and Richard accompanies Steve to the parking lot where their cars sit side by side. “Will you be sticking around then, or leaving us now?” he asks, leaning against his truck.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, partly to have something to do with himself and partly to keep the sweat from rolling down into his eyes. “I’m not sure yet. It all hinges on what John wants, I suppose. Guess I’ll know by the end of the night.” Steve extends his hand to Richard, who knocks it aside and hugs Steve swiftly, but firmly.

“Well, I know I speak for a lot of us here when I say I hope you’ll stick around a while longer. And if you do leave, keep in touch, will ya?”

Steve nods furiously, agreeing quickly. “Of course. I can’t imagine losing touch with anyone here.” They climb into their respective cars, and Steve heads to the motel to grab a shower before walking to the shop to meet John. He’s finished a bit early, so he’s got time to spare, and he takes his time picking out his outfit. Eventually, he settles on a pair of jeans and the shirt he stole from John back when he first started sleeping at his place. Once he’s dressed, he grabs his wallet and heads out the door, making short work of the walk from his motel to John’s work.

When he arrives, John’s got his nose buried in a financial ledger, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, brow furrowed in frustration. Steve’s tempted to take a photo, to preserve this moment that is so very Bucky before he catches himself. There’s a part of him that will always be in love with Bucky Barnes, that will always be searching for his best friend everywhere he goes. That much is undeniable. But for now, for when it counts, Steve is in love with John. He only hopes John loves him too.

Eventually, John looks up, sees Steve standing in the doorway smiling at him, and throws his pen down. “Hey! I was just wrapping up here. Wait, it’s not even five, why are you here already? Are you playing hooky?” John asks scandalously.

“Actually,” Steve says, “I finished. The stadium’s done.”

John’s eyes darken for a fraction of a second, the flicker so brief that Steve’s not entirely sure he saw it at all. His face splits into a wide smile before Steve can look for hints of it again, and he exclaims, “You’re done?! Well then let’s get out of here! This calls for pie and beer at the diner to celebrate!”

Steve allows himself to be paraded into the diner and praised loudly by John, whose exclamations are echoed by the rest of the townsfolk in the building. Everyone comes up and congratulates him on a job well done, saying they can’t wait for the first football game so they can get an up close look. A few kids ask if they’ll see Steve at the football game, and he shrugs, answering with a non-committal _we’ll see._

After talking with practically everyone there, Steve and John finally make it to the very booth they first talked in. The owner comes and takes their orders, and brings their food and drink out before they even begin talking; even after he’s walked away, though, Steve notices John’s gone a bit quiet. He looks put out, almost sullen, and Steve thinks he knows why. “Hey,” he says, grabbing John’s hand and holding tight. “What’s the matter?”

John chews his pie for a moment, mulling his answer. “You’re gonna leave now, aren’t you? Now that you’re done?”

Steve imagines briefly what it would be like walking out of this town, leaving it behind after finding the very person he’s spent years searching for. He drops his fork, and reaches out to cup John’s face with his now free hand. “Hey. John, come on, look at me. Please?” He waits until John’s eyes meet his. “I couldn’t walk away from you even if I wanted to,” he says softly, willing the rest of the diner to turn a deaf ear to their conversation.

His answer is rewarded with a brilliant smile, and John throws a fifty dollar bill onto the table, calling out, “No change, Scott,” before pulling Steve out of the door and down the street to the motel. Steve barely gets them inside before John is pinning him against the door, kissing him fiercely. Steve returns every motion just as enthusiastically, and soon they’re on the bed with their shirts off, chests heaving.

John pauses, remembering that every time up to now Steve hasn’t been ready to have sex, but Steve shakes his head and kisses John softly before pulling back and looking him square in the eye. “I want this. I love you.”

There’s no fanfare, no pomp and circumstance. Just feverish whispered exchanges of love, quiet moans, deep breaths. They carry on for hours and come apart together; Steve lies with his head pillowed on John’s chest in a mirror of the first time they cuddled, and John traces lazy, illegible shapes on Steve’s arm. They can’t count how many times they declared their love, and they don’t care to. Each time is like saying it for the first time all over again - magical, full of promise and hope. Nearly in unison, as with everything they do, they drift to sleep.

The next morning, John is up before Steve for the first time in the entire time they’ve shared a bed; he supposes it’s due to the fact that Steve doesn’t have to work today - there’s no alarm set. In the excitement of the previous night, John’s shirt was torn, so he heads to Steve’s dresser to borrow one of his. He remembers the drawer and slides it open, rifling around for one that feels comfortable. In his digging, however, John uncovers a careworn box marked _Memories_.

Out of benign curiosity, he pops it open, wondering if there’s baby pictures of Steve inside, or perhaps photos of his deceased parents. He doesn’t intend to look through it, is about to close it back up after seeing the letterman jacket lying on top of everything else. That is, until he sees a photo peeking out from under one of the sleeves. John gently tugs the photo out, and is stunned when his own face is peering back at him next to Steve’s. Stunned, not because he and Steve have never taken photos together, but, rather, because the John and Steve in this photo cannot be more than eleven years old.

Whether spurred by anger, curiosity, or fear, he isn’t sure; John just knows that the next logical step is to pull out the box and empty it entirely. He falls to the floor with the box in hand, and neither can he tell if he crumples from misery or just to have a large area surrounding him to place the contents. Regardless, he sits, legs folded under him, and pulls out each item in the box. The name on the letterman jacket isn’t Rogers as he’d assumed it would be; instead, it reads _Barnes_. Under the jacket are more snapshots of himself with Steve at varying age. The back of each, in a neat cursive, reads _Steve and Bucky_ , and whatever year the photo was taken in. With a jolt, John recalls Steve calling him Bucky that time he got wasted at the bar across from the laundromat.

There are a few letters, some sketches, a valentine, and books with the names Bucky and Steve printed side by side as though they co-owned them. John goes over every item repeatedly, burns each image into his mind, and lays them out in a shoddy chronology. The more he looks upon the keepsakes, the quicker his mood shifts. He’s suddenly angry. Furious, even. He’s about to stand, to storm out, when he hears Steve gasp. John’s not sure when he woke, but he shoots to his feet, eager to emphasize a height difference since it’s clear Steve won’t be standing up himself.

“Please, John, I can expl--”

John cuts him off explosively. “You can explain? _Really?_ ” He holds up the first snapshot of them he’d found. “How the _**fuck**_ can you explain this?”

Steve shrinks, folds in on himself more, if that were possible. In a small voice, he answers, “I should’ve told you. Straightaway, that first night in the diner. I should’ve told you who you were. Should’ve tried to make you remember. But…you were so sure of who you are now. And I just…”

“Yeah, please, Steve, justify taking advantage of the guy with amnesia. The guy who never _once_ lied to you. Hell, if it weren’t for your name being on these photos, I would bet you weren’t even called Steve. _Everything you’ve said to me since meeting me was a lie, wasn’t it?_ And last night…oh, hell, I fell in love with you. I _**opened up to you**_ and this whole time, what, you were chasing whoever the fuck I used to be? Well, news flash, Rogers, _I’m not fucking **him** anymore_!” John grabs his keys and storms out of the door, leaving Steve sitting on the bed, sheets tangled around his waist, and tears streaming down his cheeks. As much as he wants to go after him, John’s right - he can’t justify it. He can’t justify a _damn_ thing he did.

* * *

John all but runs back home, immediately climbs into his car, and flies down the freeway. He’s not quite sure where he’s heading or what he’s after, but he finds himself nearly three hours away before he finds himself stopped. In a split second decision, he stops the first tweaker he sees, and buys a baggie of heroin and some hypodermics. He’s not sure what prompts him to do so, but he’s always suspected that’s what the faint lines on his arms are from; a few blocks of walking finds him an alleyway behind a skeevy bar. John ducks behind the dumpster, ties off his left arm, and shoots half a needle’s worth into his veins. The effect is immediate, familiar, terrifying; a warm calm spreads over John’s body and he slides down to the ground, unable to stand. He hasn’t felt this calm in his entire life, he’s certain, and while it’s a pleasant feeling, he can feel a sick fear gripping him just under the surface.

He hasn’t pulled the needle from his vein yet, and he makes a point to do so carefully; it wouldn’t do to die in a fit of anger-induced high. As he pulls the needle from his skin, it’s like pulling a veil from his memory center in his mind. Flashes of a past life flit before him, and he screws his eyes shut against them, willing them to stop. No matter how tight he shuts his eyes, or how hard he grinds his palms against them, he can’t fight the flood of memories. He remembers Steve leaving for school, remembers kissing him goodbye and promising to see him come summer; he remembers his first line of coke, first time trying ecstasy, remembers the first needle to pierce his arm outside a doctor’s office. He remembers spiraling.

Some of the memories are clear, while others are hazy. There’s a fuzzy vision of mistletoe hanging above a door and a tentative Steve kissing him; a clear recollection of his parents dressed for the theatre. He sobs audibly with the realization that he _has parents._ He has a _family._ He remembers a scrawny boy being punched in the stomach, remembers stepping in, remembers the kid saying _I had him on the ropes_. Introducing himself, and getting a shy smile and the name Steve in response.

John begins to shiver; as he draws his knees up to his chest, a voice in his head says, _you broke your promise, Bucky. You promised you’d leave so Steve would never see how weak you are. Look at you now, curled up behind a dumpster, running from Steve all over again._ He shakes his head violently, shoos the voice away, fights back with another, yelling, _Steve loved me even when I wasn’t me._

As the voices in his head continue duking it out, Bucky - and he is Bucky, he’s Bucky again, John was never him, John was always a way to hide, a second skin, a facade - focuses on the day Steve stumbled back into his life. He remembers the shock of electricity that coursed through him when they touched for the very first time, chokes on a laugh when he realizes he handed Steve a cup of coffee made exactly to his liking, chokes on _breathing_ when he understands just how deeply Steve must have loved him to come all this way over all this time to find him and love him even as someone new. Even as the world around him fades to black, as he passes out, he resolves to find Steve. To tell him the truth, and get the truth in return. Maybe…maybe some things can be fixed…

* * *

It’s been four days since John… _Bucky_ dashed out of his room, and Steve has been poring over a map, trying to isolate places he thinks Bucky might have run to. He’s narrowed it down to a town a few hours away, and one even further; no matter where Bucky is, Steve has only one hope, one mantra flowing through him. _Please, please let him be okay. This is all my fault. Please, Bucky, be okay._ Just as he begins lacing up his shoes, keys in hand, ready to go searching, the door to his room opens. He freezes, sitting on the edge of the bed, shoelaces gripped loosely in one hand, and stares up at Bucky. Bucky’s face remains neutral, and for what feels like a century, neither of them speaks.

Until…“I can’t believe you’re still such a punk.”

Steve has never been more grateful to already be on his ass, but he manages to crumple nonetheless. Bucky - and Steve supposes he _must_ be Bucky again - rushes forward, his arms wrapping around Steve, pulling Steve’s head to his chest. Slowly, Bucky lowers himself until his face is smashed against Steve’s collarbone, not at all unlike the first time Steve told Bucky he loved him. Tears are falling hard and fast from both of them, but neither of them says a word about it. When they’ve finally subsided to sniffles, Bucky speaks again.

“I remember…I remember why I left. I promise, I’ll tell you everything I know if you tell me everything you know. And if…if you don’t hate me when I’m done…”

“I think you should realize by now that I could never hate you, Buck,” Steve says softly.

“...I want to go home, Steve. Will you take me? Can we go home?”

Steve pulls back slightly and pushes Bucky’s bangs back like he used to, smiling down at him through his tears. “Yeah. Let’s go home, Buck.”

* * *

Six years to the day since James Buchanan Barnes was reported missing, there’s a knock at the Barnes residence in Brooklyn, New York. Mrs. Barnes sighs from the sitting room and trudges slowly to answer it, wondering who would visit them on such a morbid, wretched day; she’s left to stare in shock after opening the door, unable to form words at the sight. Standing on the porch, taller, older, thinner, but still _hers_ , is Bucky. Behind him a few steps stands a beaming Steve Rogers, who she hasn’t seen in years. With her hand on her heart, she calls out hysterically for her husband, and falls into her son’s open arms. For the first time in six long years, she actually feels the sun as it shines on her skin.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Big Bang Exchange and boyyyyyyyyy oh boy has this been a journey. I started this fic before the SBBB even began sign-ups, but figured it was a good story and would be neat to be a part of this. One of the co-mods, Adriana, convinced me at BiteCon that I should participate in this, and now, what feels like many moons later, IT'S FINALLY DOOOOOOOOOOOOONE. This fic would not have been possible without the support of my very good friends, Ang and Tegan, who read along as I wrote and stuck with me through wrapping up the story -- which, I might add, was literally the DAY final drafts were due.
> 
> But more than anything, a huge, HUGE thank you to my artist, notallbees! The artwork designed for this fic is the most amazing thing I could've imagined, because, as the author, I feel _MY_ Bucky and Steve in it. It's a wonderful representation of what I believe are their true spirits in the relationship as teens, and after they've found each other again. I'm so pleased with how this whole experience has turned out and I could not be more proud of this fic, or of my artist's beautiful work.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and please, SCREAM ALL YOUR REACTIONS AT ME IN THE COMMENTS. I live for that shit, yo.


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